


I Come Before You As But a Servant, Humble and Contrite

by Stormvoël (BushRat8)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: A reminder that Pirates of the Caribbean is a supernatural story, F/M, Grief for a child lost, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Mourning, Romance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 00:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13513365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BushRat8/pseuds/Stormvo%C3%ABl
Summary: Barbossa comes ashore to the distressing news of his son, stillborn barely one month before.  Grieving more deeply than he knows how to express, he goes alone to a secluded beach, where he has a conversation with Calypso, of whom he asks a hard question.  He must also call on the goddess for help when the innkeeper suffers a sudden crisis that threatens to kill her.Follows immediately post-BROKEN EGG.





	I Come Before You As But a Servant, Humble and Contrite

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a line spoken by Captain Barbossa in At World's End after releasing Calypso from her human form as Tia Dalma. At that time, he was being typically self-serving, making the ridiculous claim that he was owed a favor for fulfilling his end of a bargain. Now, however, his motive is very different. 
> 
> In an era where both infant and maternal mortality were very high, the innkeeper was lucky to escape infection and the attendant blood poisoning, which would have killed her outright within a few hours of labor. However, she did suffer internal injury, the consequences of which were not immediately apparent.
> 
> "Taking a drink of the sea" is a sailor's euphemism for drowning.
> 
> The sand crabs I've seen ranged in size from a pinky fingernail to almost two inches in length, and are… well, they're sand-colored, and live at the ocean's edge. They're not for eating, but are fun to dig for and release, and sometimes the big ones come up to the surface to have a look around. 
> 
> There's a short postscript at the end of the story, just because I can.

 

 

 

 

-oOo-

 

 

 

 

 

He'd expected an arms-wide, smiling welcome at the door.  Not this.  Not a pale, drooping woman, red-eyed from crying, and especially not the news she gives him.  She doesn't tell him all at once, but forces him to pry it out of her, down to cursing and threatening to leave if she doesn't speak up and answer his questions right quick.  
  
Barbossa instantly rues his harshness when he discovers what the innkeeper's hiding;  not a secret so much as something she fears to tell because she knows how much it will hurt him.  "There were a child?"  he breathes, one hand going instinctively to touch her belly while the other presses over his racing heart.  "Truly?  A son?  You an' me?"  
  
The innkeeper is shivering, her pain, both physical and mental, still too fresh to talk about without tears.  "I'm sorry, Hector,"  she sniffles.  "I'm so terribly sorry.  I would have given anything, but… I wasn't strong enough…"  
  
Barbossa wonders if that's even it;  if her own strength or any lack of it was the cause of the stillbirth.  _P'raps it were me_ ,  he thinks uneasily.  _She don't know what happened, nor can I e'er tell her:  that I shouldn't be standin' here;  that I'd passed on an' it were obeah sorcery what brought me back.  Could a man once dead even give her a livin' child?  I asked that of m'self once;  be this me answer?_   It's hard to ask, but he has to know:   "Tell me, Dove:  could ye feel th' babe movin' within ye while ye carried 'im?"  
  
Out of shame, the innkeeper won't look at him, but he sees the faint lift of her head as she nods.  "He quickened and kicked and gave me not a moment's rest.  He was so alive, but he came too soon, and I couldn't… I… I don't know what happened…"  
  
" 'S all right, darlin',"  Barbossa says quickly, relieved at this answer even as he tries to comfort her and forestall the hysterics he feels might be coming.  He wouldn't blame her for falling apart, but he doesn't know how to deal with such things, let alone for such a reason.  "Shhh, 's all right, weren't yer fault, not a bit.  Shhh…"  Then, suddenly realizing what she's most afraid of, he holds her tighter and whispers,  "Don't be afeared, Dove, I won't leave ye."  
  
It calms her down, if just for now.  
  
The innkeeper shows him the spot in the garden where their baby is buried, watching as Barbossa kneels down and puts his hands flat on the warm earth, communing with his child in the grave.  "Did ye name him, sweet?"  he asks after awhile.  "Since our babe were alive an' active within' ye, then he weren't just some dead thing an' should have a name."  
  
"No,"  she replies.  "I thought to, but I didn't know what name you might want."  She hesitates, then confesses, "I didn't want to name him alone, Hector, without you to say yea or nay."  
  
Barbossa holds her, running his fingers through her hair, and he thinks for awhile before making a decision.  "Our son shall have a brave name, t' honor yer courage for birthin' him an' bearin' up under his loss, though his father were far away at sea an' no help a'tall when ye needed me most.  What say ye t' th' name of Alexander?"  
  
The innkeeper approves of his choice, but there's something she wants even more.  "Will he… will he bear your name, too?"  
  
To this, Barbossa gives her a soft, sad smile as he touches her cheek, sorrowing both for their shared loss, and that she should even feel the need to ask.  "'Course he will, darlin';  of _course_ he will.  In pleasure did I put this child inside ye, in grief must I accept his passin', but one thing I may still do for ye both:  t' claim him with a father's pride.  T' you an' me, my Dove, an' t' all as might ask about him, he shall be Alexander Barbossa."  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
"Hector, no,"  says the innkeeper, wincing as Barbossa begins to slip his hand under the hem of her nightdress, thinking that a bit of lovemaking might comfort her.  "No.  Please."  
  
She's never rebuffed his advances before, and he frowns.  "No?"  
  
The innkeeper gulps.  "Please, Hector… it's been only a month, and I'm not… I'm not healed yet."  
  
"Come now, it can't be that bad;  not after all this time."  
  
What's she supposed to tell him:  that although it's a miracle she didn't tear, she's still terribly bruised?  That her damaged womb is only just now beginning to settle down, instead of aching so badly that it keeps her up at night?  That because she hasn't dried up, she has to press the milk from her swollen breasts now that she's lost the nursling it was intended for?  "Are you that determined to kill me?  Because if you are, I'd rather you just take your pistol and shoot me in the head;  it'd be faster than lying under you, bleeding to death!"  
  
Barbossa can't believe what he's hearing.  "Dove!"  
  
Misery and physical pain have combined to shorten the innkeeper's temper, even with her dearly-loved man.  "I _can't,_ Hector;  don't you understand?"  she cries furiously.  
  
The best and the worst battle it out in Barbossa as he wonders what he should do.  This woman who means everything to him has just gone through hellish torture and damnation, but he's used to getting what he wants, and if she won't give it, then there's a whole town full of women who will.  
  
But just as the head below his belt is advising him to get up and tartly inform the innkeeper that he's going out to find more amenable company, he looks into her wet eyes, his heart aches, and he begins to hate himself for even considering it.  "Don't cry, sweet,"  he sighs.  "I said I'd not leave ye, an' I mean it.  If ye're hurtin' too much t' take me inside, then I'll be content wi' yer warmth as ye lie in me arms."  
  
Instead of indulging his pent-up lust elsewhere — there will be other ports for that — he decides for the kindness of staying home with the innkeeper, mourning with her the loss of their child.  "Tell me what it were like,"  he murmurs, rocking her.  "Did ye talk an' sing t' Alexander as he grew in yer belly?  Did ye tell him of his father?"  
  
She's not about to dwell on the sickness and soreness, but there's so much more she can tell Barbossa that he wants to know.  "All the time,"  she says softly as she nestles against him.  "I told him how tall and strong and brave you are.  How blue-eyed and handsome, and how I love your laugh.  How much I missed you and wanted you to come home so you could meet him."  The innkeeper takes Barbossa's hand and kisses his palm, then each of his fingers.  "And I sang him some of the songs that you sang to me."  
  
This amuses Barbossa in a sad sort of way.  "So, ye sang t' him songs of th' sea, then, eh?"  
  
"Mm-hm."  
  
_M' son would've been a sailor,_   is what he can't help thinking.  _He were after knowin' th' ship's chants even afore he were born._   "Ye did right by him, darlin',"  he tells the innkeeper, adding,  "an' ye did right by me."  
  
"Did I?  Did I really?  I feel so useless..."  
  
"Ah, no, no, none o' that."  Barbossa kisses the innkeeper's cheek.  "Sleep now, my Dove.  Sleep, an' I'll keep ye safe."  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
Well before dawn the next morning, and leaving the sleeping innkeeper with a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead, Barbossa makes his way down to the sea;  not to the littered docks, but to a hidden inlet where both the sand and the water are clean.  "Calypso,"  he sighs, stripping off his boots and stockings before he wades into the surf so he might feel the presence of the goddess, both in the water, and in the tiny sand crabs that scuttle under his toes.  "I know I've displeased ye, so I must know:  were you th' one what took it out on an innocent woman owin' t' hatin' me?  I ne'er dreamt she'd bear me a son, but I would have… I would have…"  
  
In the deepest recesses of the sea, Calypso hears him and wants to answer;  to speak the words he cannot say.  _You'd have loved him, just as you love his mother,_ says the rolling of the waves. _I knew you would from the first night you came back into life, and though you might think so, you have not displeased me;  at least, not as the man you've always been where this woman is concerned.  You've angered and annoyed me as one of the Brethren, aye, and been a thorn in my side, but you've also been courageous and kept your word.  I didn't take your child in unearned retribution, nor would I, but if it eases your heart to think so, then hate me all you want._    
  
Barbossa cannot hear her, nor does he expect to.  But in this moment, he needs to pour out his grief to someone who knows the entirety of what befell him, for once he leaves the island this time, he decides, he will bury his anguish so deep in his heart that it cannot touch him, and never allow himself to think or speak of his son again.  
  
Calypso hears this plan, and large drifts of seaweed shudder wildly as she shakes her head.  _You'll try, Hector Barbossa, and for a time you'll succeed, but there will come a day when you must speak the truth to your woman, no matter the cost to your pride:  that your heart has never ceased to ache over this child you created and lost together.  And though he's not in my realm and I cannot give him back, I can charge you not to lose anything further:   you must hold close to this woman if you would hold close to your soul._  
  
Retreating from the water, Barbossa sits on a rock and slowly picks up one of his boots, wishing he knew how best to comfort the innkeeper and tame his own heartache.  "I weren't made for this,"  he mumbles in frustration.  "P'raps I should just go away an' be done with it…"  
  
A large wave leaps up to smack him in the face, knocking him off his rock to land flat on his belly.  
  
A wide-eyed, breathless Barbossa chokes on the saltwater, spits it out, and scrambles backward, his back against the rocks.  "C-calypso?"  he stammers.  
  
_You'll not leave her!  Not now, not ever;  not when you so love her;  don't lie, you fool, and tell me you don't…!_    
  
He knows the sea goddess is trying to speak to him;  if only he could hear!  But that wave… that she's listening is plain enough.  "Calypso!"  he repeats, to a warm wash of water around his ankles and a tiny crab settling by his instep.  "Ye know 'bout me woman.  Ye've always known.  I just ne'er in a million years thought I'd come home t' find I were so nearly a father.  I know it weren't her fault, what happened t' our little Alexander.  She tried, she _tried_ …"  Three more crabs come toward his feet and stop, their eyes swiveling to look at him.  "Calypso, tell me… were it me own fault?  Did I put in her a babe what couldn't've lived?"  His breath hitches.  "Were that th' price of m' resurrection?"  Barbossa wipes at the sudden tears that he can't keep from trickling down his face.  
  
The salt of his tears and that of the seawater combine to let him hear the goddess.  _De only price were de bargain we made, Hector Barbossa, no more, no less_ ,  he hears in Tia Dalma's familiar accented, crooning tones.  _Dat bargain were fulfilled, so you may know yourself t' be properly 'live in all respeks.  As for de babe… him were carried wit' love an' your good Dove try her best for him an' for you, but she i'n't no spring chicken an' weren't cared for proper.  Don' blame her for dat_.  A pause.  Then,  _Why she do, I don' know, but you she love more'n her life, Barbossa.  One day, maybe you find de courage t' confess you feel de same_.  
  
The water rolls out, the crabs dig into the sand and disappear, and Barbossa does something no one has ever seen;  that he hopes no one will _ever_ see:  on his knees, both hands over his face, he breaks down and cries, a raw, heartbroken, gut-wrenching sound.  He sobs for his dead son, and for the innkeeper, whom he adores with his entire being even if he can never say it.  Most of all, he weeps for the feeling of being so terribly undeserving of the steadfast love he knows she's borne him all these years even as he prays she will never stop, for if she does, it will kill him more surely than any shot or sword through the heart.  
  
All around him, the waves lap and the wind blows gently as if in comfort;  and, presently, he calms down and wipes his tears away.  _What fool thing made me think t' run away?_   he wonders, pulling his stockings and boots back on and getting up.  _Ah, Dove, I'm sorry, so sorry.  I won't be rushin' off — th' men be lookin' t' have some good port time, anyway — an' we'll talk all ye want, of anythin' ye want;  an' if ye need me t' just hold ye so's ye can cry on me shoulder, we'll do that, too.  That be rightly what ye may expect of me, an' not one bit less…_  
  
Barbossa takes a deep breath of the clean salt air, then begins his walk toward home and the woman he loves;  the woman who loves him…  
  
… while on the surface of the water, smooth, rippling currents spread outward as Calypso smiles to herself, pleased.  _That wasn't so hard, now, was it, Barbossa?  Why do you always have to be such a damn difficult man?_  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
The innkeeper is about to make breakfast for her lodgers, but she's slow about getting down to the kitchen, and a still-wet Barbossa finds her in their bedroom, her hands on the bed in the spot where he usually lies.  "Thought I ran off, did ye?"  he asks, running a fingertip behind her ear.  
  
"I wasn't sure."  
  
On an ordinary day, he might be hurt and maybe even a little angered by her answer, but his encounter with Calypso has shaken him out of himself and made him more understanding.  "Couldn't sleep, so I went for a walk on th' beach t' clear m' head,"  he says, before managing a crooked smile and adding,  "Tripped o'er me own feet an' fell on m' face in th' water, as ye see.  Hunh:  teach me not t' wander about when th' sun bain't all th' way up yet."  Then he kisses her softly, just brushing the corner of her mouth.  "Mayhap ye'll walk wi' me there later, eh?  There be someone I want ye t' meet."  
  
The innkeeper isn't given to being whimsical, and she doesn't know of the terrible things Barbossa's gone through and seen.  "Some _one_ …?"  
  
He smiles at her, his fingers working at the cap on her head, retying the gathering strings that keep it properly ruffled.  "Not exactly 'someone,' then. But though ye've lived on this island all of yer life an' watched her in all her moods, I don't think ye've ever properly been introduced t' th' sea."  
  
Well, maybe a _little_ whimsical.  "Oh?  How shall I meet her?  Who is she?"  
  
Barbossa takes her carefully into his arms, his lips against her ear.  "Landsmen may laugh, but we sailors know 'tis true:  th' sea be a goddess, an' her name be Calypso,"  he whispers.  "Ye'll meet her by standin' in her waters, simple as that.  Just yer feet, or a bit more,"  he adds when her expression tells him she's wondering if she'll be pushed in over her head to drown.  "Th' seas be calm t'day;  she won't frighten ye.  An' even if she should try, I'll protect ye.  So, what say you?  Come wi' me?"  
  
The innkeeper looks up at him and absently tugs on the two forks of his beard.  "Of course I'll come with you."  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
After breakfast, and telling Cora she's in charge for a couple of hours, Barbossa and the innkeeper make their way down to the same inlet he visited that morning.  " 'S nice here," he says as, once again, he's pulling off weapons, coat, and boots, then helping her to shed her slippers and stockings.  "I like it for th' same reason I like Grantham House:  'tis clean an' quiet, wi' room t' breathe.  Th' noise an' carousin' an' tearin' up th' taverns be for younger men than I."  
  
"Younger?  But you came to Grantham House a long time ago;  it's quiet, but you kept coming."  
  
Barbossa thinks better of mentioning the fact that he did plenty of tavern-tearing-up and brothel-hopping back in those days, saying only,  "Aye, that be true."  He chucks the innkeeper under the chin.  "Came for th' innkeeper's lovely granddaughter, don't ye know?  Christ Almighty, how I wanted ye then."  Then, nudging his shoulder to hers, he adds, grinning,  "Want ye even more now, an' ne'er forget it."  
  
They sit on the same rock that Barbossa did a few hours before, watching the water leave bubbling foam on the wet sand, until he spots a cluster of sand crabs on the surface, moving toward them.  "Ah, here we go:  time t' meet Calypso."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
He points.  "She sent her messengers, see?"  
  
"The crabs?"  
  
"Aye."  Barbossa can't forget the sight of the released Calypso dissolving into a torrent of crabs, burying the _Black Pearl's_ crew and pouring over her rails into the water.  "'Tis why I won't eat a crab anymore;  not after findin' that out.  Shame, really — they be so tasty — but best not t' anger a goddess what can kill me wi' one rogue wave."  The innkeeper shivers.  "Oh, there now, I'm not meanin' t' scare ye!  Ye know we sailors be given t' superstition an' such-like."  
  
He's not about to tell her he's seen it with his own two blue eyes.  
  
Removing her cap and unplaiting her hair, then divesting her of smock and bodice, Barbossa leads the innkeeper by the hand into the water, following the lead of the crabs.   "Pick yer hem up t' yer knees, Dove, an' come a bit further,"  he says when she balks at going more than ankle-deep.  "Ye're safe here;  no need t' be afeared."  He's pleased when she smiles timidly up at him;  helps her move into the water.  
  
He's about to call out to Calypso, asking her to come greet his lady, when he suddenly hears the innkeeper gasp and feels her stiffen against him;  sees the dead whiteness of her face and the rapidly spreading stain of blood soaking into her skirts;  while from under them, it runs down her legs and into the water.  _Oh, Jesus!  What be this?_   Barbossa will never say so, but he's been around enough paid women who aren't the least reticent about talking about such things to know that,  _It bain't possibly from a woman's courses;  not wi' that much blood!  There must be somethin' torn inside her;  mayhap somethin' from th' birth!_         
  
"Hector…!"  The innkeeper's voice is strained and she's panting hard, one hand gripping her skirts, the other pressed to her abdomen as she falls to her knees.  "Oh God, Hector… hurts…!"  
   
_What do I do?  Christ, what do I do?_   Then Barbossa's hardened battle instincts kick in, forcing him to rein in on his panic and think clearly.  "Put yer arm around m' neck, Dove!  Now!"  He lifts the shivering innkeeper up in his arms and carries her into the water — hip deep, waist deep, chest deep — until he can go no further without drowning her.  "Calypso!"  he shouts, terrified by the amount of blood he can see around them and hoping a shark doesn't choose this inopportune moment to come sniffing around.  "Calypso, I beg yer favor, not for meself, but for this woman, an innocent what's ne'er done harm t' a soul!  If ye could do what ye did for me, a good-for-nothin', murderin' bastard, can ye not heal her just th' same?"  He hiccups;  holds the innkeeper tighter, more frightened than he's ever been in his life.  "Calypso, please!  I fear there be not much time afore she may bleed t' death, an' I cannot lose her!  I cannot!"  
  
For a moment, there's nothing, and Barbossa's fear of losing the only person that he truly loves is about to overcome him;  then, all at once, he feels the water grow warm and a current begin to swirl about the two of them.  He doesn't know if there's something else must be done, until it comes to him:  he's a sailor, and the innkeeper is a sailor's woman, and nothing less than showing complete trust in the sea's power will do.  Tearing off her bloodied skirts and chemise so that they float away, leaving her in nothing but her skin — she fights for her modesty in this open place, but is too weak to continue for more than a few seconds — he orders her,  "Take a deep breath, darlin', an' hold it.  Deep breath an' hold it;  do it now!"  
  
She obeys, and he dunks her, holding her down so the sea can wash over her and through her, top to toe, cleansing away sickness and damage.  The innkeeper will never again bear children for Barbossa — a repair like that isn't in Calypso's purview, even if resurrection is — but the bleeding from inside her stops almost instantly, and so does the pain.  
  
He holds her down just as long as he dares, letting her up only when her struggling tells him she's about to take a drink of the sea.  " 'S all right, 's all right!"  he cries as she comes up, coughing and choking and indignant.  "Ye're all right now, Dove!  See?  There bain't any more blood an' the sea's washed th' hurt away."  The water's still preternaturally warm, so Barbossa makes no move to return to the beach, but stands there, letting the waves continue to bathe the innkeeper, letting Calypso get to know her even if she does not speak.  "Th' sea…"  _Thankee, Calypso,_   he prays, weak with relief.  _With all of me worthless soul, I thank ye for th' life of m' Dove._  
  
Once the water cools, telling Barbossa he may safely remove the innkeeper to land, there's the matter of what she'll wear once she comes out of the waves, hair streaming over her shoulders and looking for all the world like one of Calypso's own daughters.  The worn smock covers nothing without the proper clothes to wear beneath it and the bodice is pointless, but Barbossa's coat is large and long and warm and will cover everything except… "Hmm,"  he says, eyeing how the coat's front cuts away, exposing what only he is entitled to look at, as he strips off his wet sash and waistcoat and shirt.  "M' darlin's got a soft, pretty nest, but that don't mean I want ev'ryone seein' it!"  He presses a single, reverent kiss to the dark curls before dressing her in his removed garments and wrapping the sash around her hips to hide any telltale shadow.  Back on with the coat, and the innkeeper stands there, somewhat unsteadily, looking like she's playing dress-up in her much taller lover's clothes.  "Ye look quite fetchin' in that,"  Barbossa observes, calm enough now to breathe deeply and smile.  
  
"And you're quite fetching like _that_ ,"  the innkeeper replies with a blush… not that he's clothed in much of anything now:  just breeches and boots and his leather and weapons.  
  
They slowly make their way home, with Barbossa either supporting or carrying the innkeeper most of the way, and go in the back door, to a screech of outrage from Cora over the dripping water and highly improper way they're dressed.  "Ah, stow yer racket, wench,"  Barbossa snorts.  "Ye've put yer ear t' our door often enough — ye think I don't know it? — so's ye know perfectly well what be goin' on."  
  
Cora huffs, but he's got her there.  
  
"Now, yer mistress will be wantin' a rinse of fresh water, so up wi' th' tub just as soon as ye can.  Cold water'll do, an' I want it full, got that?"  
  
More huffing, but it gets Cora nowhere;   besides, Barbossa's bare-chested, powerfully male presence is more intimidating and exciting than anything she's ever felt in her life, and it makes her want to obey him.  "Uhhh… yessir."  
  
While she's fetching and lugging, Barbossa goes into the kitchen and heats up a kettle of water on the grate, adding four potfuls to what's in the tub as Cora fills it;  enough to take the chill edge off and warm it a bit.  "What, ye don't want t' give up me clothes?"  he laughs at the innkeeper when he finds she's refusing to take them off.  "If ye like 'em that much, ye can wear 'em again.  Meantime, darlin', drop 'em.  All of 'em;  there's a good girl."  
  
Once the bath is prepared, Barbossa washes the salt out of the innkeeper's hair and off her skin, but not with soap;  not this time.  Just fresh, tepid water, and the same for himself.  What remains gets his clothes dumped in for a fast rinse to get rid of the salt, or else it will keep them from ever drying.  It leaves him with not much to wear;  and, although he does keep an extra half-suit in the bedroom armoire, he decides he'll spend the rest of the day lounging around wrapped in a sheet while he oils his boots and baldric and other leather.  Privilege of being the gentleman of Grantham House.  
  
Calypso's healing has taken the strength out of the innkeeper, and she wants nothing more than to sleep.  "An' so ye shall, Dove,"  Barbossa tells her, remembering how much rest it took him to return to his normal hardiness after his visit to the land of the dead.  
  
"The inn…"  
  
"Th' wench Cora will earn her keep an' run it.  Now close yer eyes an' sleep."  
  
Paying no attention to the way he's garbed, Barbossa goes downstairs and into the kitchen, where Cora's fighting with the fire in the hearth.  "Yer mistress took sick this mornin', an' will need th' day t' sleep an' be made better,"  he informs her.  "The inn be yers t' run, an' she trusts ye'll not let her down."  
  
Cora's staring at him;  not for the order he's just given, because it's one she gets from time to time, but for the way he's "dressed" and for what it reveals:  soft, knee-length linen showing slender ankles and a pair of scarred, hard-muscled calves, and if she ever had the slightest doubt that Barbossa's a man, it's dispelled by the distinctive, sizable outlines she can see beneath the cloth at his hips.  
  
Barbossa knows exactly what she's looking at.  "Sorry, missy,"  he says, trying not to laugh.  "Ye may ogle an' wish all ye like — I should show it t' ye just t' see if ye'd scream an' faint! — but I won't, 'cos it b'longs t' yer mistress for her admiration an' pleasure alone.  Now, what say ye t' th' runnin' of th' inn?"  
  
Cora takes one last impudent look — she might not like him, but she can still appreciate the way he's constructed — and then shrugs.  "I'll run it like I always do."  
  
"See that ye run it like _she_ does!"  And with that, Barbossa leaves the room, to return to the woman he hopes will wake up soon, and whose gaze upon him is the only one he wants.  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
        
  
  
It's midnight and they're in bed before Barbossa broaches to the sleepy innkeeper the subject of what happened that day and how Calypso washed away the torment afflicting her body.  "Don't ask me how I knew she could do it,"  he says, placing a warm hand on her belly, now healed of the hidden injury inside her.  "Ye must take m' word that I've seen she can."  
  
She'll take his word for just about anything as long as it means he'll stay close, but she still has to ask.  "Is it because she healed _you_?"  
  
Barbossa can't tell her the full extent of what really happened — it's the one secret he'll always have to keep — but there's no harm in tweaking the story if it will take away any unease.  "Aye, sweet.  I were sorely wounded, an' it were a great s'prise when she knit it an' stopped th' bleedin'.  I think… I think mayhap she were wantin' me t' come home t' you."  
  
The innkeeper curls up and puts her arm around his waist.  "She's done a lot for me, and I must find a way to thank her for it."  
  
Barbossa thinks about this for a moment before deciding upon what, to him, is the obvious answer.  "Th' sea be a goddess, Dove,"  he whispers just before he closes his eyes,  "an' though she bain't given t' carin' much about mortal men, I still sense that she likes ye.  Why not do somethin' t' show ye like her back?  Ye've seen she has her favored creatures, so… what say ye make th' same vow as I did?"  
  
The innkeeper smiles into the dark and squeezes his hand.  "You've more wisdom than you know, Hector.  You're right, so I promise her solemnly that, as of this moment, I'll never again eat a crab."  

  
  
  
  
-oOo-  FIN  -oOo-  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  Additional Author's Notes and Musings  -oOo-

 

 

  
  
I normally wouldn't get into what role religion/spirituality/faith might play for Barbossa, but it's worth exploring given the nature of the story.  Young Hector would have been raised by his English mother to be at least a nominal Protestant Christian — although my assumption is that his Portuguese sailor father was Catholic (home often enough to keep getting his wife pregnant, but not to bother seeing that his seven children were properly raised as Catholics) — and as an adult, he does believe, very loosely and when it suits him, in a Christian God.  His vocabulary of curses and oaths certainly includes references to it;  and, under stress, in anger, or simply to emphasize a point, Barbossa uses religiously-based expressions frequently and automatically.  But he believes much more strongly and viscerally in "the gods of sea and sky" because they are what dictate his daily life-or-death reality.  Furthermore, because of Barbossa's face-to-face, practical experience with cursed Aztec gold, Tia Dalma/Calypso, Davy Jones, the Flying Dutchman and its crew, the Kraken, and other things preternatural, he doesn't have to have faith that they exist;  not when he _knows_ they do… and for him, that knowledge of the strange things he's seen, felt, and experienced will sometimes force him to trust in something he knows is real but isn't his to control.  Asking for help (essentially:  praying) comes hard to Barbossa, but if the cause is sufficiently desperate, as it was here, he'll do it.  I think of the innkeeper's healing by Calypso as rather like a baptism in the sea;  a deadly serious version of the risqué and quite grotesque baptism a sailor gets the first time he crosses the equator;  a ceremony known as "Crossing the Line" that's been around for at least 400 years.  Barbossa went through that whole hazing ritual when he was a very young teenager on a legitimate merchant vessel, and it was much tougher than it is today.  There's a lot of information online if you want to read about it.  
  
By the way… if you ever wash your clothes in seawater (use coconut oil-based soap if you do), you really do need to rinse them in fresh water;  otherwise, as I noted, the salt will continue to draw moisture from the air and your clothes will never dry.  Barbossa found this out long ago.


End file.
